


An Ornament for a Summer's Day

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: I'm afraid this completely ran away from your prompt, but hope you've enjoyed it anyway. Happy Yuletide.





	An Ornament for a Summer's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cptsdcarlosdevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdcarlosdevil/gifts).



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> “The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day."
> 
> Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

 

The house was so oppressive, and so full of painful memories, that, several times, Dorian felt a chill running down his spine, and scowled down at the oversized desk. He hated being cooped up in the old house and in the study where the spring light barely filtered in. He couldn’t sit still. Of course, his restlessness made it impossible to get any work done, which meant he would be stuck here for longer or risk getting a lecture from his lawyer, which, in turn, only made him more sour.

 _Time for a drink,_ Dorian thought. He stood up, leaving scattered papers behind him, and retrieved the glass he’d used earlier. He’d had to clean the dust out of it himself, and had wondered, irritated, if he should fire the fucking useless housekeeper he was paying for. He couldn’t make decisions about the estate yet, though. Maybe the drink would help him calm down. He paced back to the kitchen, blinking a little in the brightness beneath the skylight in the hall.

There was some sound outside right as he was pouring the Scotch into his Scotch and soda. He started, spilling liquid on the marble kitchen counter-top, and cursed. Christ, it was like muscle memory, being twitchy in this house, as if he were a child still expecting one of his grandfather’s tirades. He ignored the spill: let the housekeeper deal with it, when she came back. At least he had something to drink now. The liquid burned in his throat when he took a sip, but the warmth of it steadied him. He was grateful for that. He told himself, as he often had, that he was no longer the little boy hiding up in his room with shaking hands while his grandfather shouted abuse at him, too scared to venture out, and hard-pressed to keep out of the old man’s sight despite all this space. He would never be in that position again. He was, instead, winning. He would most likely inherit and sell the house, or have it torn down brick by brick, and get his grandfather’s money, too, to do with whatever he liked - to be the biggest disappointment he could, just out of spite. His age and his having been born in a later generation made that small victory possible. But it was hard to be consoled, and today was particularly hard

He had almost finished his drink, and was staring back at the open door of the study, when he realized that he didn’t have to stay here _alone_. He should have thought of it hours ago. In fact, he should have thought of it before he came here, and might have, if he wasn’t dreading his task so much that he couldn’t think straight. There weren’t many people he kept in touch with, in his hometown. Four and a half years away at university without a single visit home could do that. But Russell Hallward, the artist and art teacher Dorian had been sort of involved with since that class he took on a whim, would come over, if Dorian asked him to. He _should_ ask.

Then Dorian remembered the argument he’d had with Russell the last time they spoke. His hand tightened around his glass. He might have to smooth things over if he called. He took another sip, and tried to weigh the pros and cons of calling Russell, as if he were making a chart for some boring university assignment. Pro: Russell would come over in a heartbeat, and would let Dorian vent about whatever he liked, from his family to the legal nonsense tying up the estate or anything else. They would probably end up having sex, too. Russell was surprisingly good in bed; the sex, at least, would be more fun than sitting here hunting for worthless papers and remembering some of the worst parts of his past.

Cons: Russell might try to wheedle Dorian into apologizing for their argument. If Dorian wasn't careful, they might end up rehashing the whole stupid thing, which would be draining. He didn’t see why Russell was such a nag, when all Dorian did was miss one exhibit opening. He’d already said he was sorry for missing the event, which sounded cool, and which he would have been happy to attend if he’d remembered the date. Other con: Russell would invariably want to sketch Dorian while they talked. That wasn’t always a bad thing; it could be kind of flattering, but sometimes, Russell would stop moving his pencil or his charcoal and would just sit there staring at Dorian in a way that made him uncomfortable. He could never explain why. Dorian was learning, when that happened, to cause a bit of an argument by reaching for his phone or complaining that he was bored, to give himself a break. Having sex worked as a distraction, too.

He leaned against an archway, listening to the awful stillness of the house. _The pros outweigh the cons_ , he thought, and took his phone from his pocket.

The phone hardly rang before Russell answered it.

“Dorian?”

Dorian bit his lip.

“Hey - Would you mind coming over? I’m at the old house doing paperwork, and…”

His voice trailed off. There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. Annoyed, Dorian clutched the phone with one hand, and sipped his drink.

“It’s - good to hear from you,” Russell began. “Although I wish you would have called during the week -”

“Oh, you’re not still mad about that, are you?” Dorian asked.

Another, longer pause. Maybe calling was a mistake after all. Dorian scowled.

“I _said_ I’ll go to your exhibit when I can. I really am interested; you know that. Anyway, I wish you wouldn’t make this all about you. Today’s the anniversary of the day my parents died, and I’m _miserable,_ cooped up in this place alone.”

He grimaced at the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. Damn this house, and the estate, and Russell, too, for making him explain himself.

“I didn’t realize that,” Russell said, softening. “Dorian, I’m sorry. Of course I’ll come over, if you want me to. What’s the address?”

*

Dorian managed to sort through exactly one more drawer in his grandfather’s study before the doorbell rang. He stood up, noting with dismay the sparse stacks of paper he had spent the morning arranging. They were about as useless as everything else his grandfather had done for him - letters from people Dorian had never heard of, and ancient magazines or newspaper clippings he couldn’t imagine anyone reading, let alone keeping. There was also a handful of papers about the banking empire his family had built up that might be worth submitting to his lawyer, though he wasn’t sure. He tipped most of the day’s efforts into the garbage beneath the desk. Then he lit a cigarette, and went to answer the door on its second ring.

“Hey,” he said to Russell, who was standing in the doorway, winded from the uphill walk, and clutching the absurd, ratty tote bag he used to carry his sketchbooks and pencils. Dorian leaned forward to shut the door against the wind threatening to blow into the foyer. He’d lived for so long on the other side of the continent that he’d forgotten how changeable the weather was here, even on days, like today, that were deceptively bright and cold. It was impossible to dress properly, among other things.

As he locked the door, his arm brushed Russell’s side. Dorian smiled at him without knowing why.

“Um - Thanks for coming over...”

“It’s fine,” Russell said, taking off his coat, and looking around the foyer. At least, Dorian thought, this area was well-lit and somewhat stylish, unlike much of the house, with its hideous wood paneled everything from the 80’s or maybe even the 70’s. Before Dorian was born, at any rate.

“Should I take my shoes off?” asked Russell.

Dorian scoffed.

“I don’t give a shit. It’s not _my_ house.”

Russell slipped his shoes off anyway.

“Well, it’s _almost_ your house. Did you read that article I sent you?”

 _Oops,_ Dorian thought, remembering some legal article Russell had emailed him before their argument, in an unnecessary attempt to be helpful. Of course he hadn’t read it.

“No,” he said, vaguely. “I’m glad you think I’m going to - to _win,_ though. I mean, against my grandfather, even if it makes me sound like a terrible person to want to benefit from somebody dying.”

Russell winced a little at the words. He tried not to stare at Dorian, despite being struck by the young man’s beauty - almost as taken aback as he was the first night he met Dorian, in one of those drawing classes he couldn’t quite give up, though he no longer needed the money. It wouldn’t be right to make Dorian uncomfortable now, when they hadn’t yet made up from their last argument, and when this must be a difficult day for him. Russell looked around the oversized foyer instead, before he realized that that might make him seem too awed or too materialistic. He turned his gaze back to Dorian, and, at last, gathered up the courage to kiss him, chastely and hurriedly, before answering.

“You _couldn’t_ be a terrible person,” Russell promised. He’d never meant anything more. As flakey and, well, frustrating as Dorian could be, Russell didn’t believe there was any real malice in him. It was easy to forgive his occasional boyish cruelty or selfishness. Besides, from what Russell understood, it sounded as if Dorian had had a terrible childhood, and resented being saddled with so many adult responsibilities now. He supposed that might make anyone become preoccupied with their own problems, especially someone as young as Dorian.

“Thanks,” Dorian said. “You can dump your coat wherever. Do you want a drink? I mean, I guess I can use whatever I want here.”

Russell folded his coat over a chair, then reached for Dorian’s hand. The warmth of the touch gave Russell some small measure of reassurance. He tried not to recall how lonely the last few days had been for him. He’d spent far too much time brooding over how there was no future for him and Dorian, and dreading the fallout when his time with Dorian eventually ended, as he knew it would. Knowing that Dorian had reached out to him again - that they weren’t over yet - meant everything to him.

“Don’t worry about me, if you have things to do,” Russell murmured. “As you said, it’s _not_ about me. I can just keep you company, as long as you don’t mind me sketching. Should we sit down somewhere?”

Dorian shrugged. “If you want. I suppose I could show you the house first…”

Russell hesitated. He thought there was a hint of ironic pride in Dorian’s voice, though he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t even know if Dorian had called him for emotional support, which was promising, or if that was too much to hope for. He didn’t want to pry, or ask anything of Dorian that might be too hard for him to do or to talk about - not now, when they hadn’t spoken for a few days.

“Only if you’re okay with that,” Russell said, letting Dorian’s hand drop, and taking a step back. “I’m here for _you._ Show me, or tell me, as much or as little as you want.”

Dorian took another drag on his cigarette. Uncertainty gnawed at him; he took a step away from Russell, hoping he’d done the right thing in calling him.

“Can we sit down?” he asked. “We can do the grand tour later.”

He led Russell into the living room. As he did so, he forced himself to explain a little bit about his parents and his grandfather, and why it seemed so insulting to be stuck in this house today. He resisted the urge to interrupt to get another drink. After all, it didn’t make much sense to call one of the few friends he had in town, and then not talk to him, did it? But he wasn’t used to talking about his history. He’d only told a couple of people at university, a girlfriend he’d dated in his first year, and then a male friend of his he’d realized much later may have been interested in him. Before university, when he still lived in the same city as his grandfather and was still dependent on him, he’d been much too embarrassed and too scared to confide in anyone. Besides, he was isolated enough among his private school classmates without it getting around that his parents were junkies, and that he’d spent his early childhood in a crappy apartment in one of the worst parts of town. Of course he didn’t remember much about those early years, but they seemed happier than growing up with his grandfather.

At least Russell was suitably impressed and sympathetic. He took Dorian’s hand and held it halfway through, when Dorian first mentioned his parents’ car crash. Dorian flushed - the gesture would have been too much, in most contexts - but didn’t mind this time. It was a fine balance, with Russell, between accepting his help at moments like this, and avoiding him when he got too needy or jealous. Dorian was rather grateful for the touch now, though. He couldn’t help it.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” Russell said.

“Thanks,” Dorian replied. “I mean, I’m much better off now. For one thing, there’s no one in my life who’s…”

He stopped short, fumbling for another cigarette, and finding the pack empty. _Damn it._

“No one in your life who isn’t there by your choice?” suggested Russell. “Sorry, I’m not presuming to know better than you do...”

“No, that makes sense, I guess.” Dorian stared down at the white leather sofa, his throat itching. “Do you want a drink? I need a drink. I could open some wine, or something.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Dorian rolled his eyes at Russell. “Really, you can have something. You don’t even drive.”

“Well, I’ll take whatever’s convenient for you. I’m not fussy about the brand or the vintage.”

 _Only about everything else_ , Dorian thought. He bit his tongue, however, and rose to fetch two wine glasses from the cabinet. These, at least, were clean enough. Then he headed back to the kitchen to choose a wine. He supposed Russell could look around on his own for a few minutes, and fully expected to find him sketching when he got back. Dorian didn’t mind taking his time picking what seemed like a good wine from his grandfather’s collection. There was a perverse pleasure in depleting his late guardian’s supply before the court judgement even came down. It wasn’t quite as much fun as, say, fucking Russell in the master bedroom of this stupid house would be, but it was something.

When he returned to the living room he found Russell standing by the grand piano in the corner, admiring it, with a sketchbook in his hand. Dorian set the bottle of wine down on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” Russell said. “Do you need my help with anything?”

Dorian shook his head. He poured out a glass for himself, and one for Russell, whose attention had drifted back to the piano.

“That’s a lovely instrument,” he said. “You play, right?”

“Yeah. One good thing I learned in this place.”

“Well, you should take it with you, wherever you end up.”

“I plan to,” Dorian replied, resuming his seat on the sofa. “I think it was my mother’s - that she was also into music. I’m not sure, though.” He thought, bitterly, of how much he didn’t know about his parents, and of how few memories he had that his grandfather hadn’t tried to twist or taint, and looked down.

Russell came to sit beside Dorian, a little hesitant. He didn’t say anything for a while. Instead he busied himself with his sketching, and let Dorian nurse his drink.

“Feel free to ignore me,” Russell said, after a minute or two, “but do you at least remember them? Your parents?”

Dorian worried at his lip until he felt the pain of it starting to swell. _Shit._

“Never mind, Dorian; I see how hard this is for you -”

“No, it’s fine,” Dorian murmured. “I remember them a bit.” He called to mind one his earliest memories, stumbling down the hallway in what must have been his parents’ apartment before his father scooped him up in his arms. He wished he hadn’t run out of cigarettes. “It’s just hard to know what’s real, and what was my - my grandfather throwing some tantrum, and accusing them -” He stopped short. Russell actually let his pencil drop, and put an arm around Dorian’s shoulders, tugged him closer, and kissed him.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Russell said when they parted.

Dorian ignored him. “It’s terrible when you’re a kid, and all you hear about your family is how they got themselves killed because they were high all the time, and how they were such an embarrassment, like it was my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Russell stroked his cheek. “You didn’t deserve any of that, and your parents didn’t, either. I - I think our society probably treats substance abuse in the most wrong-headed way possible. It makes sense for someone in your grandfather’s generation to have been particularly conservative, and particularly bad.”

“Yeah.” Dorian imagined, with a flicker of triumph, his grandfather’s reaction to seeing him entwined with another man in the house his family’s banking empire had built. He managed a smile. “I heard so much about - like - the legacy I was supposed to have, and what a fuck up I was, like my mother. Now, if I get this place, part of me wants to tear it down and move back out west, or go volunteer in some poor country somewhere, to get as far from here as possible, but there’s another part of me that kind of wants to keep it out of spite - _if_ I get the house or anything else.”

Russell reached for his wine glass. “I don’t think you should stay anywhere that holds such bad memories,” he said, fixing Dorian with one of those annoying stares.

Dorian drew back a little. “Well, it’s not like I know anything about selling a house - and I don’t much like the apartment I’m in, either.” He wrinkled his nose. “It _looks_ nice, but it’s very - like - I don’t know. I feel like I’m surrounded by the kind of social climbers my grandfather would’ve wanted me to hang out with - a lot of banker and lawyer types.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Sorry; that must sound really snobbish.”

Russell laughed, too. “It’s more like reverse snobbishness. Anyway, I guess you’d hate my neighbourhood - although I don’t think there are many bankers there; I’m too _declasse_ for them.”

Laughter, at least, was easier than Russell’s adoration.

“I don’t mind your area. I might even look there next time I move.” An idea struck Dorian then. “Didn’t you say you bought your place? I take it you know more about the process than I do...”

Russell frowned, and Dorian pursed his lips, bracing for a lecture, or something equally unhelpful.

“Dorian, you've seen my place; it's nothing like this.”

“I know.” Dorian sighed. “‘A historic house in one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in the country’ - so I’ve been told, mostly by my grandfather. ‘Home of countless Prime Ministers - ’ like I cared about the fucking Prime Minister...”

“Well, I don’t care about that, either,” Russell said quickly. “You know I hate politics; as far as I’m concerned, no one in the whole field is worth painting, although most of them would benefit from a little whitewashing _._ ”

A faint smile tugged at Dorian’s mouth. Russell reached for his hand again, and Dorian allowed him to take it.

“You _said_ I should sell the place, and I don’t know anything about doing that,” Dorian added.

“Poor little rich kid,” Russell teased. Then he faltered. “I’m sorry, was that inappropriate? After everything you told me...”

“You don’t have to be so nice all the time,” Dorian countered, growing bored. “Don’t worry about things like that; just say you’ll help me if I have to sell this house.”

“All right, I will try to help you. You know I will always help you, if I can. I wish you’d do one thing for me in return, though.”

“What?” Dorian asked.

Again Russell hesitated. “I think you should speak to someone - a professional - about your family issues. I’ll listen; I’ll do anything I can for you, but the things you told me today are above my pay grade.”

Dorian rolled his eyes over the edge of his wine glass. “I’ll think about it.”

Russell still didn’t take the hint. “Dorian, I get that it’s hard to talk about these things. My friend Harry would probably say something flippant about how people’s tragedies don’t matter, but they _do -_ ”

“I said I’d _think_ about it,” Dorian snapped. “Anyway, I didn’t realize you had any other friends.”

“Dorian -”

“Well, you never introduce me to anyone.”

“Harry’s the last person - Well - He travels a lot, and anyway, Dorian, I don’t want to argue with you. Not again.”

“Then don’t. If I can’t get any work done, I at least want to do something fun.”

He looked over at Russell, and trailed a finger along his wrist, but did no more than that. He wanted to make Russell come to him. He watched Russell swallow hard, and set his glass down. It was funny, in a way. When they first met, Dorian had thought that sleeping with someone a dozen years older than himself might be more of a challenge. He couldn’t have been more wrong, but that was sort of good to know, too.

“I - Dorian, you’ve had a lot to drink, and I think you’re feeling spiteful or rebellious about being here.”

Dorian held his gaze, coolly, and wished that Russell wouldn’t put him on this weird pedestal.

“I’m _not._ I’m fine.”

“Well, my hands are smudged, and you’re wearing white -”

“Just shut up and kiss me, will you? You’re being ridiculous.”

Russell suppressed a sigh. He _did_ think that Dorian’s judgement was off, his usual moodiness heightened by alcohol and emotional vulnerability. Russell didn’t want to be the sort of person who would take advantage of a partner in that state, though he could imagine Dorian’s careless teasing if he were to voice that particular thought. _You don’t have to be so nice._ It didn’t matter anymore that he’d spent much of the past week fantasizing about passing by Dorian’s apartment and seizing him by his crisp designer shirt, or crushing his mouth in a bruising kiss, and pinning him against the wall, and _making_ him pay attention to Russell and nobody or nothing else, for a change. All that was only a fantasy. Even if he tried, Russell would never succeed - would never, ever have the upper hand in this relationship, for any number of reasons.

“Should we go somewhere more private - one of the bedrooms?” Russell asked. Of course he was giving in. He knew he _should_ protect himself as much as, or instead of, Dorian, but he didn’t care to. He’d never felt more perfect happiness than when he was with Dorian. It almost made those dreadful, lonely days when Dorian ignored him and refused to see him or answer his calls or texts bearable.

“No,” Dorian said. “I want you right here, right now, in this pretentious living room…”

His words slurred slightly, but he leaned forward, and cupped Russell’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Russell shoved his sketchbook out of the way so he could pull Dorian closer. His whole world seemed to narrow, until he was aware of nothing but Dorian’s lips on his, and his own growing desire.

“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured after breaking the kiss. Dorian shrugged, as though he were waiting for Russell to do something.

“Here,” Russell said.

He knelt on the white carpet in front of Dorian, and fumbled with the zipper of Dorian’s jeans. He stroked him slowly, teasing his cock to hardness, and watching the expressions that passed across his face. Dorian’s blue eyes darkened, then fell shut; he put a hand on Russell’s shoulder, favouring him with a brief caress before pulling him closer still. Russell inhaled, sharply. He bent his head lower to take Dorian’s cock in his mouth. Every shudder of Dorian’s, every muffled gasp or involuntary jerk of his legs, thrilled Russell, and made him even harder. At times like this, he didn’t care that he was never going to get from Dorian all the things he wanted. Sex was a chance to forget all that - almost like his art was, he reflected, in its way.

Then Dorian tilted his head back against the sofa and twined his fingers in Russell’s hair, demanding more from him, and conscious thought receded altogether.

*

Afterward, when they were both sated, Dorian let Russell stay close to him, and kiss him (thank God he wasn’t one of those closeted types who wouldn’t kiss a male partner), and stroke his hair for a while, until he complained that he wasn’t Russell’s pet. Russell backed off. He’d already stolen enough happiness for one day. He thought of how much he wanted from Dorian - to be with him every day, to sketch and paint him endlessly, to know everything about him, from his history ( _poor thing_ ) to his hopes and dreams to trivial nonsense like his favourite movie or coffee order - and knew he had no right to expect that. He would take whatever he could get, and cling to it. Really, he was honoured that Dorian trusted him enough to talk to him about his family tragedies, and to confide such difficult things in him. It had been somewhat painful for Russell, hearing the strain in Dorian’s voice and watching his hands twisting in the hem of his sweater, or clutching the stem of his glass in a vise-like grip. He hated knowing someone he loved so much had been so unhappy - and what Dorian had told him today must only be the tip of the iceberg. Still, he couldn’t deny that he was glad to be needed and trusted, though he felt rather cruel thinking it. He hoped that today might at least lead to some greater intimacy between them, though he was trying not to get his hopes up too high.

He watched as Dorian poured at least a second, if not a third, glass of wine, and tensed when Dorian picked up his sketchbook to flip through it.

“I could never do what you do,” Dorian sighed, in between sips of his drink. “I have no talent.”

“Don’t say that.” Russell put a hand on Dorian’s arm, flattered and, frankly, relieved that Dorian wasn’t complaining about how much Russell sketched him - wasn’t realizing how obsessed Russell was - or even giving him a hard time about the shopping lists or phone numbers or email addresses Russell had jotted down between quick, careless drawings, since this wasn’t his best sketchbook or his best work. Getting wide-eyed admiration from Dorian instead of teasing or awkwardness was unexpected, but much appreciated. “You know I’d be delighted if you stayed here to study art - since, as you said, you can do what you like now. I’d be happy to help you if you wanted to take another class or work with me privately. Whatever you want.”

It was, of course, a terrible conflict of interest, wanting Dorian to stay here with him, rather than move away again, or volunteer abroad for an indefinite period. He knew he should support whatever Dorian chose, especially if he wanted to use his potential for good, but the thought of losing him so soon terrified Russell. He avoided the subject as much as he could, for fear that he couldn’t be objective. He could, of course, imagine the sort of biting remark his friend Harry would make about someone in Dorian’s position going off to the developing world to volunteer, but unlike Harry Wotton, Russell _didn’t_ disapprove of altruism on principle, or to shock people. His own motives were a different kind of selfish.

“I’m sure you _would_ help me,” Dorian said, without looking up. “But I have no talent. Really. I think I finally learned that I’m better off just modeling.” He grinned, then, and changed the subject, which suited Russell. It made it easier for Russell not to say something that would betray his occasional exasperation, like, _You know, you could try practicing or working at something for a change_.

“Are you exhibiting anything of _me_ in that gallery?” asked Dorian.

Russell gave a sigh, and caressed Dorian’s face.

“I’ve only done a few rough drawings of you - hardly the sort of thing I could exhibit.”

It was almost a shame that exhibit hadn’t been a few months later, Russell reflected, watching Dorian throwing back his head and laughing. Russell thought he was more productive than he had been in a long time, and more than that, he thought he might be better, in a way, as if he were seeing things that he had always missed before. Maybe it was the fact of being in love, or that sense of impending loss, that had given his work some new edge. He couldn't explain it. He wouldn't even attempt to explain it to Dorian.

“Right,” Dorian said, taking a long drink. “Never mind; I _do_ understand how this process works, I promise…”

“Well,” Russell said, indulgently, “I was thinking that I would love to paint a real portrait of you - the sort of thing you seemed to like, in my studio - but that would take time, so I’m afraid it would help if you didn’t change your mind every day.”

“God, you know me by now.” Dorian set his glass down, still beaming. Russell liked to think that he knew Dorian, or was getting to. He certainly knew how unreliable Dorian could be. He’d been late for every single drawing class except one, which was a minor miracle, and was usually late when they had plans together now, too. The latter took far more of a toll on Russell. He had no illusions about his importance in Dorian’s life, and was quite sure that Dorian benefited from the times when they weren’t together, after one of their arguments, or the nights Russell had to teach, to go to parties or concerts or other events with friends and prospective partners who were closer to him in age. That was another subject Russell didn’t dare bring up. Setting boundaries with Dorian about anything sensitive or serious, even a spineless reminder to be safe whatever he did, seemed likely to cause more trouble than it was worth.

He dragged his mind back to the present, trying, as always, to ignore that thread of dissatisfaction and pain that ran through his relationship with Dorian. Outside the window the sky had clouded over. The lower light filtering in had allowed shadows to gather in the corners of the room, and tinted Dorian’s hair a darker shade of blond. Russell managed a smile.

“So what do you think?” he asked Dorian.

“About the painting?” Dorian said. “I want to say yes, but I can’t make another decision today without a cigarette. I’ve needed one all afternoon, and I’m out.” He placed Russell’s sketchbook back on the coffee table before smoothing a crease from his sweater. “I should go get some; there’s this convenience store near the underpass, maybe a five or ten minute drive from here. You can come with me if you want.”

“You can’t mean to drive now - and I thought you were cutting back on smoking?”

Russell noted, with a dim sense of alarm, the way Dorian’s features tightened. He tried not to care. He was old enough to have seen a few people ruin their lives with these sorts of decisions, even if Dorian wasn’t - though, really, Dorian _should_ know better, given his history.

“It’s not up to you what I do with my life,” Dorian protested.

Russell looked down, his courage failing him, and fiddled with his watch strap. “I’m only telling you this because I - for your own good, Dorian.”

He stopped abruptly, but it was too late. God, between his fidgeting and the tone of his voice, he might as well have said _I love you_ , and wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

Dorian, however, remained indifferent.

“Well, I never asked you,” he said. “And I do this all the time. It’s fine.”

Russell bit his lip. For a moment he thought that Dorian might be goading him into an argument on purpose - but that wasn’t likely, was it? Dorian was too immature and impulsive for that, which made Russell painfully aware of the fact that they probably shouldn’t be together at all. Dorian had also had a bit too much to drink to show that kind of forethought, for good or ill. Russell should have discouraged him, but that was the problem: Dorian didn’t make it easy to be a good influence.

“An hour ago, you were telling me how your parents _died_  in a - DUI,” Russell said, because apparently, he didn’t know when he was beaten. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

Dorian’s face flushed with anger. _So much for getting anywhere with kindness,_ Russell thought.

“I wish I’d never told you that,” Dorian snapped. “It’s not the same thing, and you don’t get to use that against me.”

“Dorian -”

“I only had a couple drinks, and _you_ don’t drive at all.”

Russell clenched his hand on the armrest. The words stung more than he liked to admit.

“I _can_ drive; it just doesn’t make sense for me to have a car,” he said, before realizing how defensive and irrelevant all that was. “And I’m only telling you for your own good -”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t,” Dorian replied, looking Russell over with that terrible coldness in his eyes. “You can leave, if you want, or come with, as long as you don’t try to stop me or control me. I don’t care either way.”

Russell knew he should be fuming. The memory of the last week, however - of how without Dorian he was almost too depressed to work, let alone find any enjoyment in his life - deterred him. He restrained himself and took a slow, deep breath, despite the feeling that he was swallowing all his pride.

“At least let me come with you. I can drive, if you want - just give me directions.”

Something about his suggestion or his tone must have checked Dorian’s anger. Dorian stood up, and rolled his eyes again, but spoke more calmly when he answered.

“Well, if you’d stop picking fights and promise not to get a scratch on my car, I _might_ let you.”

Russell pressed a hand to his temple, and hoped Dorian didn’t notice. At least he could count on him for that, he thought bitterly - not to notice or care. Then he forced the thought away with an effort. After all, Dorian was relenting. He shouldn’t push too hard, especially when Dorian was going through a rough time. And there was still so much he wanted to do with Dorian, and for him - that painting, for one thing, and even simply helping him to build some happier memories in this place. He couldn’t lose Dorian yet.

“I promise,” he said. He put his sketchbook and pencils back in his bag, smoothed his shirt and jeans, and stood up to follow Dorian out of the room, ignoring his lingering unease.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid this completely ran away from your prompt, but hope you've enjoyed it anyway. Happy Yuletide.


End file.
